Made of Steel
by Era Yachi
Summary: Before Shion and KOSMOS, before Rubedo and MOMO, there was Ziggy. This is the story of Ziggurat 8 before and after the events of Xenosaga III. Ziggy.MOMO, obviously father.daughter
1. Chapter One

**Title: **Made of Steel

**Summary: **Before Shion and KOS-MOS, before Rubedo and MOMO, there was Ziggy. This is the story of Ziggurat 8 before the events of Xenosaga.

**Notes: **I finally gave in and now I'm writing a Xenosaga fanfiction. Yay. Naturally, I'll be alternating chapters between No Reason and this story. Either way, I'm going to be very, very, very, very ,very busy. Enjoy, friends of Square!

**Disclaimer: **If bottle caps were gaming corporations, I'd probably own Xenosaga. But I don't. So there.

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**Chapter One:**

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** Personnel evacuation confirmed. Safety warning procedure is currently zero. Reestablishing connection to Analysis Core 00-08-01.**

Black.

It had been so long since the world existed that he was aware of nothing at first. All he could see was black. Yet he knew there was something there, as if he had simply woken from a dreamless sleep to find himself in a soundless, sightless void. No pain existed here. Only blurs of darker shadows amidst the screen of nothingness.

** Response feedback is functioning at ninety percent efficiency. Interference detected. Response now limited to primary Analysis Core systems.**

This was a dream. He was not asleep, not conscious, but dreaming. He remembered everything, and more. Now came a flood of memories, thoughts, activity in his mind that infected every sense he possessed. He could still see nothing, hear nothing, but somehow there were directives in his mind that were never there before. Part of his mind, where the void existed, was a complete arrangement of artificial nerves. There was some feeling, very little, but his perception was still blank. Withheld from him.

** Administrative override command confirmed. Stations 3F and 5F have been purged of anomaly data. Subject 00-08-01 responding at one hundred percent efficiency.**

Now there was light. Sensations, from the cool metal he lay upon. He was suddenly aware that he was not standing or sitting, but reclined in a chair that felt very remotely familiar. He felt his eyes open, although whether he had chosen to open them or keep them shut seemed like a decision he had made a long time ago. Mixed messages floated to the surface of his thoughts.

** Data analysis complete. Analysis Core is now being collapsed. Disintegration complete. All systems clear. Subject life signs normal. Safety warning level canceled at termination of Core connection. Entrance cleared.**

His vision was still muddy, but operable. After a few moments of focusing on the bright ceiling, he closed his eyes again. Faintly, it seemed, he heard the sound of light footsteps. They were like sonic charges detonating inside his ears, but the misuse of control of his face prevented him from showing any sign of discomfort.

The footsteps gave way to a sharp, yet professionally gentle voice. "Subject 00-08-01, Jan Sauer. Can you respond?"

It was female voice, none too harsh in the way he had expected. If this were a hospital of any kind, the doctor would only understandably treat him like a felon. Being the kind of patient he was, why would she not?

And yet there was nothing he could do about his placement in her care. He opened his eyes again. The face of the young woman loomed before him. It was a fuzzy interpretation of her unmistakably stern expression. Green eyes, brown hair, and a blue uniform with no emblem. She was not a "doctor".

"Can you respond?" she asked again, placidly.

He moved his jaw. It felt heavy somehow, but he could use it to form a response. "Yes."

"Voice functionality confirmed. Proceeding to physical and mental maneuverability examination" said the woman loudly. Then, her expression softening by the barest fraction, she stepped forward. "Please state your name and occupation."

The command put him off for a second's hesitation. "Jan Sauer. I am captain of the 1875th Special Operations Command detachment of the Federation Police Bureau."

"Memory implants also operational," the woman stated, with some distraction. "Subject 08 is showing no signs of obstruction of memory input parameters."

"Where am I?" he inquired after a brief silence.

The woman seemed surprised by the question. Her unveiled expression lasted less than a second, before she averted her eyes to the module in her hands. "You are at the Initiation Collective Stations of Ziggurat Industries. You, Subject 08, are a upgraded combat model of our latest cyborg design."

That put stillness to many of his questions. It also drove a cold spike into his chest, in which he could not hide at all. His shock, however, was something the woman appeared to be accustomed to. She looked up from the screen of the module with a merciless stare.

"Under the circumstances, the S.O.C.E. has legal claims over your existence here. After termination, your body was donated to science, and recycled. Your name is now part of the Industry's distribution – Ziggurat 8. Your serial code is 00-08-01, as your cyborg implements are from the eighth version of our researcher's publications. Jan Sauer is deceased. Do you understand?"

"No," he growled, unable to control the rage that so suddenly took him over. He surged forward, but remained captive of the chair that held him. The circular room echoed with the sound of an alarm, a series of red warning lights flashing behind the panes of glass that separated them from the surrounding control rooms. "What have you done to me? Why was I brought here?"

"Subject 08, restrain yourself!" the woman cried, having leapt back at his abrupt lunge. Her voice was timid. "Any act of aggression on yourself or towards Ziggurat personnel will result in auto deconstruction of your memory implants and they will dispose of you." Her gaze hardened as she spoke the last few words.

There was no spite in the way she warned him. In fact, the way she voiced the warning was more akin to concern than a threat. Gradually, he allowed himself to relax. He did not relent his cold stare.

The woman inhaled deeply and sighed. After a few moments, the warning lights flickered out. They continued to exchange intent gazes for quite some time before she lowered the module to her side and placed a hand on her hip.

"My name is Rebecca Evans," she told him. Her steely, professional air was gone. "Most people call me Becky, but to you, a cyborg, I'm Dr. Evans. Off duty, I'm Lieutenant Evans. It's my job to complete the analysis of new industrial designs, particularly in the cyborg department."

He chose to say nothing. She did not seem to mind.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Ziggurat 8. I hope this doesn't seem too sudden, but I have to ask you a favor. I'd like to keep my job, as staggering as it already is under the pressure of Realian hostile takeover. So I need you to stand up, so I can complete the diagnostic."

Ziggurat 8. Jan Sauer was deceased. He understood now, that it was not a dream. He had escaped reality only to be thrown back into its scorching light by a heartless corporation. A…cyborg.

Ziggurat directed his eyes downward. So that was why the feeling had not fully returned to most of his body. And science had clearly not been ignorant of him. His body, as it was now, was more metal components than his former flesh. As Evans information claimed, his left leg was little more than cyborganic implements, and part of his left arm shared that fate. His eyes fixated on the mechanical hand.

"Those restraints are precautionary only," said Dr. Evans matter-of-factly. She strode briskly to the panel attached to the chair and intently accessed the lock on the restraints. They unclamped. "Most of the people who wake up finding themselves in this chair…" Suddenly, she sighed and placed a hand over her eyes. "Damn, I'm not supposed to say that. It's against the law to even refer to cyborg specimens as people. Maybe Vector is right, creating all those Realians…"

After glancing at her, Ziggurat attempted to lift his altered arm. It moved with the command. Almost transfixed, he placed the still fleshly hand against the back of the other. Cold, hard metal resisted the touch. It was bewildering.

"Feel free to stand when you're ready," Dr. Evans told him lightly. "I'm sure it takes some getting used to."

He leaned forward, only then realizing that the functions of his spine were limited to midway throughout his back. The joints of his hips, left knee and ankle were all of metal cyborganic parts. That in itself was awkward, for it took several moments of consideration to determine how to operate both artificial and organic leg at the same time. He managed somehow, eventually, by moving his left leg to one side and using the other to stand.

It was a peculiar feeling. He felt off-balanced, yet not enough to topple over completely. He made the mistake of attempting a step, and very nearly lost his footing. Evans saw him stumble and looked up from the screen.

"Don't worry about the first few steps," she encouraged. "Try using your own leg first, then take the second step with…um, your other one."

It was sound advice, and he took it. The cyborganic leg seemed willing to obey his commands. He took a few steps, turned very slowly, and walked back. This success, however, did nothing at all to sate the fact that he no longer belonged to himself.

"All right," said Evans. "Everything seems to be in order. Now, the last stage of the diagnostic-"

Her voice was cut off by the hiss of the door opening at the opposite end of the room. Three men stepped out of a small elevator and crossed towards Ziggurat and the stunned woman. Two of the men were clearly soldiers, while the third was one of authority, an older gentleman in a crimson uniform. There was no humour, no humility behind those eyes. Not even a glance was spared towards Ziggurat as he approached Dr. Evans.

"G-Good day, Minister," she finally choked out. She then regained her composure in the blink of an eye. "What brings you to the ICS?"

"Is this the new combat model, doctor?" inquired the minister with military curiosity. "I was informed by the Commander of this department that it was expected to be completed one week ago."

The minister was perfectly groomed, lean and well dressed. Every impression he threw off with both tone and body language demanded respect of authority, not charisma. Ziggurat blanked his face while he studied the man of prestige, not daring to outwardly give evidence of his distaste. Instead, he remained silent and unresponsive to the older man's passive aggressive stature.

"Yes, sir," Dr. Evans replied hesitantly. Her eyes flickered, as if she had decided at the last moment to not glance in his direction. "The launch of the Analysis Core was contaminated by a data anomaly and all three sub-stations had to be shut down and repaired. This is Ziggurat 8, series 00-08-01."

The minister tilted his head towards Ziggurat, frowning. "Doesn't say much, does it?"

"Minister Baroway, with all due respect-" Evans began, "-although the Ziggurat series Cyborgs are lawful property of the S.O.C.E, they were once people. Ziggurat 8 was human, and still is in part."

"I'm well aware of that, Dr. Evans," said Baroway snidely. "But as a military man, the way I see it, when a man dies he loses his humanity. Add a few trinkets and flashing lights, and he's just a machine that looks like a man. Now, I'm told you have a diagnostic for me?"

"In progress," said Evan haltingly. "We were almost severed again by the anomaly in F Station, so we were set back slightly."

"Progress?" Baroway echoed doubtingly. "If you ask me, the cyborg looks operational enough. You're a week overdue, doctor."

It was a strange feeling that occurred to him. Although he felt as if repeatedly being called a tool was an offense, it didn't truly anger him. He was a cyborg, with no connection to his former life at all. In fact, it would have caused more strife had this minister chosen to accept his past humanity. Because Ziggurat did not.

"I can't simply turn him over to you now, Minister," Dr. Evans insisted, brushing her hair behind her shoulders. "If the anomaly happens to be an infection in the database, his advanced nervous system could fail at any time. Any irreparable damage must be prevented to preserve resources, if not his life."

Clearly, Baroway had no argument to that. Naïve as he seemed to be about the operations of the facility, he was no idiot to the state of Federation law. Ziggurat assumed him to be a patron to the industry, however impatient a man he was.

"Very well," said the minister. "How much longer will this diagnostic take?"

"Since he's the first model of the Ziggurat 8 series," said the doctor faintly, "the entire observational diagnostic will take over a month. But the initial error testing just takes a few minutes, if you're willing to wait."

"After this initial testing," said Baroway. "It will be ready to be transferred to military operations?"

"Assuming there are no errors, yes," said Evans. "I'll also be transferring temporarily to instruct the maintenance crew on procedures for the new model. The eighth series is a great deal unlike the others."

"Yes, I see," said the minister, coughing. "Don't mind me, Dr. Evans. Continue your...analysis, please."

Ziggurat watched indifferently as the minister beckoned to his consorts and moved patiently to one side of the room. Evans cleared her throat to draw his attention. She mouthed an apology without actually saying anything, but seemed relieved when he nodded in return. He had not spoken a word since his outburst, but he decided that some level of communication had to be established.

"Well, I'm going to connect the system directly to your signature remote, Ziggurat 8," Evans said with a forced casualness. "In order to restore activity in the brain, part of the...um, the frontal lobe had to be...reconstructed. You will feel something of a small prick..."

He remained still as she attached the device to the base of his skull. Other than the brief shock through his spine and the promised 'small prick', nothing seemed to change at any degree.

"Since I've already documented functionality of your cyborganic parts, we just need to tune certain things for...performance results. Like distribution of weight, authorized activation of your interior weapons, among other odd jobs."

Ziggurat risked another look at his mechanized arm. Along with several other S.O.C.E. procedures, the integrated device had planted information about the weapon he was 'designed' to use. Clearly this new body of his had functions that went beyond simple training. He was a 'model' for combat.

"Ziggurat 8," said Evans. "Are your cybernetic implements functioning?"

So, the interrogation had begun. Ziggurat glanced the doctor's way. "Yes."

"Your serial number from date of production is 00-08-01. Can you confirm this?"

"Yes."

"Please state the basis of your operation, and your objective outside the line of duty."

Information. It came in a torrent of brief messages, all alien and discomforting to his mind. For a moment, it overwhelmed him. Before he could attempt at answering the interrogative, an automatic response took its place. He spoke it in such a way that he immediately understood just how his will of free speech had been completely restricted. The words felt like raw ice as he recited.

"My objective is the defense of the Ziggurat facilities. When I have no issued directive, I will serve personnel and public citizens under S.O.C.E. jurisdiction. My primary functions are those in order of combat. I am equipment of Ziggurat Industries Military affiliation."

Dr. Evans was silent for some time after that. She studied the panel she stood at and considered it with no expression. "And...what are the consequences of failing this objective?"

Automatic. "Disengagement from the industry and recycling."

Evans' eyes fell as she completed the diagnostic on the screen. For what seemed like an hour, the circular room was deathly silent. Then the doctor moved away from her station to detach the device from his neural system.

"That just about covers it," she said hoarsely. As if embarrassed by her sudden loss of voice, she coughed. "I've admitted control of his weapons as well as most, but not complete access to free speech. I understand you feelings about cyborgs, Minister, but I've never allowed a single model to leave this room with less priority than one of your soldiers."

"Naturally," said the older man smoothly. He strode forward, entering the immediate are inside the semi-circle of operating panels. "I would prefer that this fine technology be put to proper use. We are not, after all, living in the dark ages."

"Of course, sir," Evans agreed hesitantly. "Thank you for waiting like that. I'm sorry the process was overdue, but..."

"Not at all, doctor." Baroway held up a hand to silence her. "I'm afraid I must leave now, however. It is my task to escort the new model to its new facility. You have done rather well."

Dr. Evans opened her mouth to reply, but she decided against her choice of words. With the formality and grace of someone much higher in rank, she folded her hands in front of her, nodding. "Thank you, Minister. Since I will be stationed in the military detachment for the next week, perhaps we will see more of each other."

"I look forward to it," the minister promised, his voice laced with false enthusiasm. "Corporals, you will escort the cyborg, while I arrange an audience with the Administrator," he commanded of the soldiers.

"Wait," Ziggurat stated firmly. Several pairs of startled eyes snapped towards him. He ignored them all except for one, focusing his gaze on Dr. Evans. "Why me?"

She stared back in utter bewilderment, as if the two words had slapped her across the face. Her mouth hung open slightly as she stuttered, "I…I don't…I mean, I'm not supposed-"

"That is confidential information, cyborg," Baroway put firmly. "What matters is the fact that you're now S.O.C.E. property. It is a fact you will deal with, or face the consequences. Is that clear?"

The cyborg looked straight at him, but said nothing.

"Respond, Ziggurat 8," the minister growled.

Ziggurat replied calmly. "Yes, Minister."

"That's more like it." Baroway gestured to his corporals, who immediately took a position on either side of the cyborg. "Take him to the Reference Bay. Best he gets acquainted with the others, as he'll be seeing a lot of them in the future."

One of the corporals reached for Ziggurat's right arm, but stopped when the cyborg glared at him. Instead, the soldier jerked his head towards the door and turned towards it. Ziggurat followed, paying a great deal of attention to the placement of his steps.

"Ziggurat," Evans said abruptly. He turned around. "Good luck."

"Thank you," he replied somberly. The corporal in front of him cleared his throat. Ziggurat all but ignored him as he stepped past and through the door.

And into an entirely different world.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary**Before Shion and KOS-MOS, before Rubedo and MOMO, there was Ziggy. This is the story of Ziggurat 8 before the events of Xenosaga.

**Notes: **Hey, I've taken up Xenosaga Episode I again…and I'm learning new things as I go along. Now I feel a little more confident…plus, the reviews help. Yay for feedback. Oh, and if this were a one-shot, I'd have told you. So no worries.

Before I get a bunch of reviews claiming I have several spelling mistakes (hee hee hee), please keep in mind - most American words that have 'or' in it will appear with 'our' instead. That's how we Canadians (and British) do it, in case someone didn't know. For example, 'honour', 'behaviour', 'colour', 'armour' and so on…just to save time.

Just for the sake of information, I'll briefly explain what this fanfic will be. It's basically the events in Ziggy's life before Xenosage Episode one. There will be some slight time lapses, obvious. Not possible to write a full ninety-eight years worth of story. Heh…

**Disclaimer: **Consult previous chapter.

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"Wait there," came the sharp order. Ziggurat stopped in his tracks. Throughout the wide, scarcely populated corridors, neither of the corporals had so much as glanced his way. They were not bored, or dissatisfied with their jobs, yet they were wary. He had no doubt that they chose this route personally to avoid public interaction. Even those few employees they had passed were given strict, verbal warnings to give the 'cyborg' a wide berth.

Much like transporting a dangerous weapon.

Ziggurat already knew the law, outside of the fact that 'they' had integrated it into his partially reconstructed mind. Cyborgs simply were, have always been, and always would be weapons - mere objects for the using of the possessor. A hazardous type of equipment that needed to be handled with caution. No matter that some weapons were once human. No matter that, even with every alteration imaginable, those weapons still were human.

Objects made of steel and flesh. Organic and synthetic parts. Alive, and still…dead.

When the corporal swiped his keycard in the console, released the lock and opened the door, this is what Ziggurat saw.

The hangar itself was impressive. Three whole levels of platforms, labs and stations designed for conservation of space and not comfort, massive pieces of equipment and other apparatus came to life before his very eyes. It was his first sight of the Reference Bay. It was an unfamiliar terrain that was all too quickly going to become his routine.

Reference seemed to be a major understatement for this place. On the right, there were rows upon rows of half-cubicles. Uniformed workers milled here, either moving from console to console, or tapping away at their stations with no regards whatsoever to the world around them. On the left of the bay, there was a collection of large screens and smaller consoles. Images flashed on these screens – diagrams, lists of complicated data netframing and third-dimensional models of what appeared to be the makings of initial blueprints for cybernetic parts.

Reference data for weapons. There were no surgical or medical approaches here. In fact, as Ziggurat observed the screens silently, there seemed to be no consideration at all to the condition of the original body after synthetic implements were attached.

There was an oblong desk at the very front of the hangar, with twelve occupied seats. Men and women in gray-and-black uniforms were immersing themselves at their consoles here, completely ignorant of the three new inhabitants of the space around them. It was one of these personnel that the corporal approached and conversed with.

It was a short-lived conversation. The woman the corporal had disturbed rose from her chair in a daze and turned to face the 'new model'. She was not very young, nearing her late thirties at least. Her skin was dark, her hair neat, short and well groomed. A glint of calculation was sunk in those eyes as she approached him briskly.

"Ziggurat 8," she said in a business-like tone. "Welcome aboard our cybernetic research project. Normally, I would skip these formalities and assign you to your first mission immediately, but I have been informed by the corporal here that you are the first in a new line of cyborg products?"

"Yes," said Ziggurat. "A weapons archetype specialized in front line tactics."

"I see," said the woman. "So that is what happened to our last MCP report. Well, seeing as some of our best data went into your production, Ziggurat 8, I hope we can expect a high rate of success from you."

"I will do as I am required," he said, a little compulsorily. "I'm sorry I can't promise more than that."

"Don't be," was her untailored response as she clasped her hands behind her back. "We know very well what our designs are capable of. You are cyborgs, not miracle workers."

Ziggurat stared on grimly, but did not respond.

"I am curious, however," she went on. "Although I'm aware that your reasoning and human expressionism is limited by the Double I in your enhanced neural systems…I am no stranger to emotional conflicts in a cyborg. I've seen years of hard work and research destroyed in an hour, simply because those fools who run the trial records were neglectful of the fact that cyborgs still have feelings. If you need a day or two before undergoing final maintenance, all you need to do is ask."

The corporal, whom had been standing by, sighed impatiently. His thoughts did not need to be voiced openly to make them known. But if his feelings towards the subject even mattered, the prominent woman ignored them.

"I understand your reasons for offering," said Ziggurat. "Thank you, but I would rather begin the maintenance as soon as possible."

"Very well," she said. "I am not entitled to argue, after all. Now," she added, with a heavier air of duty. "Before we get ahead of ourselves, it's only logical to acquaint you with one or two of our older models. They will probably be able to help you more than anyone else. At the moment, our most reliable reconnaissance team is under repair. I had their maintenance pushed back, to…how does one put it, 'kill two birds with one stone'? It saves effort to have all three Special Ops Ziggurat 6 models and our newest series prototype looked after at once. Also, that way you can meet them."

Ziggurat chose not to express his discomfort about that particular fact. He had no interest in meeting anyone, least of all cyborgs who, undoubtedly, had similar backgrounds to his own. But again, he was unable to refuse. And that feeling of passive obedience was just beginning to feel like monotonous ticking of a clock.

"Corporal Beren," said the woman dismissively. "Corporal Lang, thank you for your assistance. You may return to your usual duties."

"Sergeant," mumbled the same corporal who had done the talking thus far. He waved to the other soldier and they both turned to leave. The woman kept her eyes on Ziggurat until the door closed behind them.

"My name is Francine," she said when they were gone. "Don't bother calling me Sergeant. You are not a solider – you are property of the Subcommittee On Close Encounters. Just Francine. I'm the Second Officer in this department, next to First Officer Haynes. Dr. Zulliani is our superior and the representative of Reference research."

"I understand," Ziggurat replied.

"Of course you do," she said, showing the scarcest bit of humour in her voice. "That's how we designed you. Now, if you will follow me, Ziggurat 8, we can get started."

Francine began to walk away from the desk. Ziggurat hesitated long enough to stare back at the numerous pairs of eyes that were side-glancing him from their seats. For a moment, the workers seemed surprised, before they snapped into their senses delved into their subliminal labour again. Ziggurat started after the sergeant.

They passed the screens and entered a new corridor branching off the main bay. This corridor was considerably more populated than the ones he had seen before, although his presence here did not stir up a reaction at all from the onlookers. Here, his kind was a common sight.

His kind. In his experience, his kind had been _their_ kind up until one hour ago. He was no longer a mere captain of a small detachment at the Police Bureau, but something different. Something strange. He could not even comprehend it fully, as there were restrictions implanted in his brain that altered his memory. He was fully aware that he should somehow feel different about his fate. Angrier. And still, he was not. He did not know why.

"Francine," he ventured. He took note of her small nod, assuring him of her attention. "I'm not sure that I understand my role here. What does a cyborg do, exactly?"

"A perfectly reasonable question," she said, keeping a brief pace. "Not an easy one to answer, unfortunately. You are a military investment, constructed for operations that require advanced combat procedures. Ziggurat Industries does not advance heavily on large-scale production of cyborgs, so we don't treat them the same as regular soldiers."

"Human recruits," Ziggurat confirmed placidly.

"That's correct. Cybernetics aren't cheap anymore. Ever since Realian technology was innovated, the cost of developing the synthetic materials used in cybernetics has increased. Suffice to say, the entire industry is under a shadow now that you're awake."

"Is that because I'm the newest model?"

"You catch on quick," she said with a hint of amusement. "Everyone has reason to worry. There's a good chance Headquarters won't allow us to develop a Ziggurat 9. I doubt there will even be many version 8 cyborgs. We've been outdated."

"I see."

Francine gave him a long side-glance. "You're different."

"I'm sorry?"

"You're different from the others," she said thoughtfully, before returning her eyes to the corridor ahead. "I could not tell right away, but there is something about you that makes you…unique." For a moment, her stone-faced stature relaxed. But only for a moment. "I am not supposed to encourage uniqueness among cyborgs, but I can't seem to help myself."

Ziggurat remained silent for another second. "I don't understand," he said at last.

"Neither do I," she sighed. "Technically, your synthetic arm and leg are made of the same components of every other cyborg in this facility. Your design is parallel to earlier Ziggurat M-Class cyborgs. I don't know the specifications of your internal synthetic implements, but I have a distinct feeling that they're not the standard Double I protocol."

"Double I," he echoed. "Intellect Inhibitor. I had no idea such things were possible."

Her expression was fixed smoothly. "It sounds barbaric, in a way. I don't specialize in altering the inside of people. I just help replace the outside parts. It doesn't get very complicated after that."

"You don't sound happy with your job."

"I have been doing this job for fifteen years," she stated firmly. "Although it may not last much longer, I intend to do it for as long as I can. It is all I can do."

Ziggurat was spared from responding when she slowed to a halt near a broad, windowless door. She briskly scanned her own identification card in the panel to one side, and stepped back when the door opened. With a nod to him, she preceded him into the room beyond.

He stopped just inside the entrance and surveyed the room. Now that old feeling, a minuscule spark of anger, was invoked at the sight.

The room was little more than several flat plains with a few consoles. There were hundreds of maintenance beds, not dissimilar to the one he'd been acquainted with a short while ago. Nearly half of those beds were occupied by people – all cyborgs, clearly identifiable by their various cybernetic parts. Every last one of them had a uniform identical to the one Ziggurat wore – navy blue, and each fitted specifically to their customized bodies. Technicians moved to and between these specially designed chairs, running their check-ups, performing their scheduled upgrades or otherwise conversing in tones that made the room seem to hum with dull life.

Suddenly, he was aware that Francine was standing beside him. She appeared to be following his gaze to the activities of the room and averted her eyes when she made the connection. "This may seem like bad time to tell you this, but more than half of these cyborgs are willing contributors to the industry. Former employees, in fact. Soldiers who, like you, donated their bodies to science after death."

"I do not-"

"Most do," she told him abruptly. "Many of them knew the consequences of the donation, but there are others, like you, who were not aware of it. Something as simple as signing an organ donor card can be more than enough legal evidence to recycle the body once it expires."

"I never knew an entire body counted as an organ," he said, unable to hide his spite.

She shook her head. "Times have changed. So have laws. In any case, I am sorry to say that I cannot spare the time to discuss it. My duty requires me to hand you over to the Maintenance Block until I am instructed further. Follow me."

There were several surprised glances in his direction as they cut their way through the stream of industrious workers. Only two cyborgs paid any attention at all – one a female who appeared more machine than human, and a young man with wide eyes. Either they lost interest, or they were disallowed to present any open awareness, for they both returned to their maintenance without a second glance.

When Francine stopped again, they stood before three different beds, apart from the others. Only two were in use. The technician operating the console behind the maintenance area looked up and gasped slightly when she saw the two newcomers. Francine smiled at her, which was apparently dismissal enough for the frightened employee. She backed away and scurried off in the other direction.

"Hey-" complained an irritated, somewhat gravelly voice. "Who scared away my girl?"

The cyborg sitting in the rightmost bed sat up, scratching the back of his head. He was lean and slightly lanky, and evidently much older than the majority of the cyborgs resided in the room. His hair was thick, gray and shaggy. The angled shape of his nose and chin was not complimented at all by the metal plate-work that composed the right half of his face. It ended just below his hairline, but extended all the way throughout his right arm and leg. Two eyes, one artificial and deathly black, the other human, glanced from Ziggurat, to Francine.

"Why, if it ain't Frankie," he said with some sarcastic cheerfulness. "Gracing we humble cyborgs with her beautiful pomp and aroma."

"Good morning, Number 4," she replied icily. "I can see even after ten years, you still refuse to change. I also see that Lucky is with you. Where is Calamity? Her maintenance is scheduled with your own – you should know that."

"Cal?" quipped the old cyborg gruffly. "Don't know where she is. You, Lucky?"

The second cyborg also leaned forward, although with less enthusiasm as his counterpart. Ziggurat took notice of his entirely mechanized body. The only part of him that seemed human was located above his shoulders. His face was calm and serene, like that of a scholar trained in deep thought.

"Calamity has yet to complete her mission," he said with a silky voice. "She will return eventually."

'Number 4' stared as his recently upgraded hand for a moment, flexed it, then snorted. "What's with the new guy, Frankie? Did the people upstairs finally get that new version 7.0 done? It's been ages."

"No, that project failed in its first stages," Francine replied strangely, as if surprised that this cyborg hadn't heard of the recent news. "I am here to introduce you to Ziggurat 8, M-Class combat version one."

"Ziggurat 8?" said Number 4. "M-Class? What do they do now, throw a body and a bunch of metal scrap into a furnace and see what happens?"

"As you can see," Francine told Ziggurat, who had chosen to remain silent for the verbal skirmish. "Number 4 prefers older Ziggurat versions to the new ones. Fortunately, he is a very old model himself and lacks the technology that stimulates his molecular structure. He will grow very old eventually and die."

"Says you, old woman," coughed the grizzled cyborg. "Man, heart of stone…"

"I am pleased to meet you, Ziggurat 8," said 'Lucky' as he stood. "I am a Ziggurat 6 version cyborg, Reconnaissance Specializations. My code name is Lucky. He may seem unfriendly, but Number 4 is actually pleased to make your acquaintance as well."

"Is he a mute, or what?" growled Number 4. "Say somethin', rookie!"

Ziggurat turned his head sharply towards the older cyborg. "Sorry. I was thinking about something else."

"What?" Number 4 moved quickly to his feet. "They found you in a flower shop, didn't they? That scares me. The only reason Frankie would bring you straight here is because she wants to make you part of the team!"

"If that's the case, I don't have any power to change it," said Ziggurat. "I am not entitled to refuse orders issued by personnel."

"We are glad to take you aboard," Lucky interrupted before the old cyborg could explode. "That was your intention, was it not, Francine?"

"Of course," came the neutral reply. "The three of you operate very well on your own, but you lack a professional combatant."

"Professional?" barked Number 4. "This rookie can fight, huh? Well, why didn't you say so before? Welcome to the top reconnaissance team of the industry, Number 8!"

"Francine," said Lucky with a brush of inquiry. "I am curious about his name. It seems rather illogical to refer to him as Number 8, since he will not be the only cyborg version eight. Correct?"

Francine crossed her arms, looking slightly thoughtful, as if confronted by an enigma. "I hadn't thought of that," she said. "Well, I suppose I will leave that up to the three of you. Until you find him a suitable code name, call him Ziggurat."

"Hell, why didn't we think of that?" muttered Number 4.

"Both of you are off-duty for the remainder of the day," Francine pointed out. "And your newest member of the team is about to undergo his final maintenance. I want the both of you to come with us. For moral support."

"Hey, what-" the old cyborg began to protest. "Damn! You just want to keep me under your nose, don't ya?"

"And me," said Lucky humourously. "To ensure you are on your best behaviour, Number 4."

"Yeah, well," Number 4 grumbled. "Like we can say 'no', anyway. Fine. We'll join your pansy little masquerade."

Francine side-glanced at Ziggurat. "Is that all right with you, Ziggurat?"

"I have no objections," he replied solemnly. "Just as long as we hurry. I'm hoping this last procedure will answer some questions I have."

Those questions, although he did not know it now, would never be answered. He suspected that no matter what happened after this, nothing was going to change what he had become. All he could do now was endure it, keep an eye out for any opportunities, and go to whatever extreme he was allowed to eliminate his past self.

That was the foolproof plan.

So why did he feel like one?

* * *

**And thus ends a second chapter.**

**Next Chapter – **Ziggurat's maintenance is completed, yet not all goes as planned. And when Calamity, the third member of the reconnaissance team arrives…well, you'll see. The plot finally unfolds…


	3. Chapter Three

**Title: **Made of Steel

**Summary: **Before Shion and KOS-MOS, before Jr. and MOMO, there was Ziggy. This is the story of Ziggurat 8 before the events of Xenosaga.

**Notes: **Hooray! Feedback! Aight, thanks for the support, etc, etc...duly appreciated. This chapter happens to be the point in which events start unfolding...and since I'm so utterly tired right now, I cannot think of more to say...murds are wuddled...not clearly I thinking am...

Also, please note that this chapter has some blood, violence, mild swearing…the rating is PG-13, after all.

Also…**SPOILERS AHEAD! WARNING: XENOSAGA II SPOILERS AHEAD!**

**Disclaimer: **Consult previous chapter.

_Italics are flashbacks._

**Bold is the intercom, or the computer's voice (a recording).**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

"...attempt at reestablishing a connection with the neural system damaged by the fatal wound. We try not to add too many synthetic parts, not only because they're expensive, but adjusting to each artificial framework takes time, you know..."

The technician talked nonstop, apparently unaware that her sole listener had not spoken a word of reply since entering the room. She busily adjusted the different parameters of the maintenance bed, never stopping once for a breath or even a glance in the cyborg's direction. After what was blessedly a short wait, she finished.

"Good luck!" she chirped cheerfully, before exiting the room.

Ziggurat stared at the door for a long minute. He then closed his eyes and returned to his thoughts.

_"This is the last installment of the ICS," Francine told him. They now stood in the workroom of a station not dissimilar to the one he had woken to. The Sergeant crossed her arms as she spoke. "Our...your official registration will be completed here. Afterwards, a medical official will be overseeing your post-analysis."_

_Number 4, who had resumed his leisurely slouch against the wall, lifted his head and snorted. He then grunted when Lucky drove his elbow into his soft side. The older cyborg brushed him away and reverted his eyes toward the window overlooking a small, circular room._

_"Ziggurat," said Francine, earning his attention. "No matter what happens, I know."_

_She eyed him meaningfully, turned around, and walked to a console just before the large window pane. She sat down without so much as glancing at him again._

_"Well, we'll be right here, scratching our rear ends, countin' sheep," muttered Number 4. "Go on in."_

_"Excuse me," said a bright, female voice. A technician appeared inside the door leading to the maintenance room. "But we're ready for Subject 08 now."_

Ziggurat slowly opened his eyes to the brightness of the room. The silence was near deafening. He could feel the place where the system had been connected to the synthetic part of his brain. It was different from last time – he felt the cold bite in his skin. This time, he was aware of the activity that passed through the main computer and his Double I. He knew nothing of the actual work being done, which he assumed to be confidential. So he simply remained still.

A soft hissing surprised him. Ziggurat saw the door slide open again to admit another technician – no, not a technician. A doctor. He recognized Evans immediately.

"Yes, I know," she interrupted him before he could get a word out. "What am I doing here, right? Well, it so happens that the doctor who was previously assigned here wasn't feeling well. So I'm filling in." Her emerald gaze scanned him for a second. "Unless that's a problem with you?"

"Uh, no," he said hesitantly. He never was a genius at concealing his discomfort.

"Liar," she accused him wistfully. "Not that it matters. Once I take the shift, it's my shift." She sighed. "Anyway, we're diving in now. There's a good chance you'll black out for the whole thing. So just sit back, relax…or, pretend you're relaxing. I get the impression that you're the kind of guy that doesn't usually relax."

"Not really," he admitted. "It's not part of my job."

"Join the club," Dr. Evans muttered, more or less to herself than to him. "Okay, establishing link with the mother computer. See you on the other side, Zig-"

000

_"-Jan, you look like hell after an asteroid hit it," said Arram. The lieutenant sat on a stool next to him and said something incoherent to the bartender. "I mean, physically, you look as if you need a week in intensive care. Mentally…I'm starting to worry 'bout that, too."_

_"I'm in no position to argue with you," said Jan. He appeared fascinated with the glass before him. "You have other things to worry about besides me. I'm perfectly fine."_

_Arram leaned back from the counter in mock bewilderment. "Fine? You're not fine! That's water in your glass, Sauer! You're in a bar – drink somethin' you can only find in a bar!"_

_Jan turned his head. "Last time?"_

_"What? Sonya? Man, Captain, I know you love that kid, but-"_

000

"-impossible! The databank is expanding tenfold – doctor, we can't control it from here, try to reroute the EC from the console. The Sergeant is in static shock – if we don't pull her out of there, we could lose her! If only we could-"

000

_"-it's only another week, Jan," she said gently. Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. Those eyes…_

_He tried to move, but it was clear that he was only a passenger in this memory. The scene unfolded before him…_his_ memory, and something else._

_"I thought the East End investigation was over," he remarked suspiciously._

_"It was," she sighed. Her velvet green bag dropped onto the bed. Inside that bag was…_

_Photos. Papers. Evidence not of the crime she had been sent to investigate, but of another crime…_

_"It turns out they arrested the wrong gang member," she told him, rushing to collect a few more garments to add to her bag. "The leader of the investigation…hmm, I think Sergeant Marzak…anyway, he was called back from his vacation to hunt down the right guy. They need me to interview the guy they arrested – where did I put my PalmCom?"_

_"Sonya, what about Eric? I can only look after him when I'm off-duty." Jan placed his hand on the corner of the dresser, blocking her path with his arm as she tried to squeeze past him._

_She turned to him, her arms crossed. "My _mother_ will watch him during the day. In fact, she offered to watch him all week, so you don't have to travel across the city day and night to pick him up."_

_"I don't mind," he said honestly. "You know I would rather spend time with him than be at the station."_

_"I know," she replied in earnest. "Which is why you should understand how I feel about going away…but I _have_ to work, baby. They're threatening to close East End down, and I don't want that."_

_Jan lowered his arm. "Will you at least say goodbye?"_

_Sonya faltered. "I-"_

000

"-can't shut it down! The EC is no longer responding to manual override! It's…it's creating new networks inside of the diving area at…at an impossible rate! This computer doesn't even _run_ that fast! Sergeant Francine, she's…Becky, she'll lose her mind to this _thing_ if we don't get it under control!"

"I know, I know…" That was Dr. Evans. Her voice sounded parched, urgent. She was nearby, speaking from somewhere near the console to his right. It was the voice of Evans, yet it was the voice was Arram, and Sonya as well. It floated around him. "No…this can't be happening! Not to Francine!" There was a choked pause, and the sound of clenched fists striking the console. "Let go of her, damn you!"

Ziggurat's eyes snapped open. The room was like a beacon, blinding him, like scoring a great scar through his eyes and into his head. He realized immediately that he too, was choking, paralyzed. Although his body would not respond, his mind whirled like massive storm of unknown currents. There was screaming that was not his, or that of the people around him. Terrible sounds, images flashing through the torrent of jumbled memories and electronic pulses.

Then Evans was there, standing just above him. Through his near-blindness, the numbness, he saw that her face was fixed with both anger and frustration. As twisted as his own face might have been with both pain and effort to battle the anomaly, she seemed to not notice.

"Listen to me, you…you _monster_," she seethed forcefully. "Let her _go_. Let everything go. Forget it all! You're going to _kill_ her! S-stop it! Stop fighting it!"

_I'm not…fighting, _he thought bluntly. It was all there, every last memory, spread out before him like a deck of cards. Instead of disappearing, however, they continued to accumulate by the thousands. He confronted them all at once. _I can't let them go. They won't stop. Why is this happening?_

Dr. Evans hunched over him, pressing both her hands over his right hand. "_Please_…" Her voice wavered. "Please let her go…this isn't supposed to happen. The others weren't like this…let go of her…let-"

000

_"-evacuate the premises immediately. A citywide state of emergency is in effect. Please advance to the nearest shelter as soon as possible. Again, we ask that you evacuate the premises…"_

_Flames licked at the buildings surrounding the empty square. The hollow shells of burnt-out cars, bodies of men and women, broken rubble and scorch marks lay scattered everywhere. Men, men of his own detachment, who had been part of his team, were dead. Blood was on the ground, on the walls, in the streams of water running from broken pipes. Dust was thick in the air._

_Jan was running. Running away from the images of Arram's face, pale, dead. Towards the district where his entire life lived. He occasionally stumbled over the cracked pavement, nearly trampling the dead and wounded. He was an officer, hired to fight off threats to the city and the citizens. He had fought against the monster like the others. He had failed – he had lost the entire squad in an explosion that nearly killed him as well. He was no longer an officer, but a father with a will that laughed in the face of duty._

_The creatures – Gnosis, where retreating now. They had found the secret amidst the governmental buildings, the Emulator that had been the agency's biggest secret for decades. Now that it was gone, there was no reason for them to continue destroying the city in order to recover it._

_He knew this, because it had been amidst the words of that non-human. Right before he killed it – the one that killed Arram. It had also promised that the Gnosis fleet in orbit would annihilate the East End. No one who had been in close contact with the Emulator would survive. Mustn't survive. They would not allow that._

_Must run. Get Eric, take him, and run. Nothing else mattered._

000

"-vital signs are fading, doctor. Both of them – the clear function has been completely overwritten, so the system…since it's not responding, I can't get either of them out of there. You have to figure it out down there! The cyborg's doing something to the system – I don't know what – but there's only thirty-five seconds until the entire mainframe crashes!"

000

_No._

_No, no, no._

_Dead mother. Blood, bodies, complete wreckage. The mother, Sonya's mother, dead, hardly recognizable in her ravaged state. _

_Now it came in flashes. The memory wasn't complete – broken, like those bodies. He had chosen to repress it, the images. A man stood there, like death. Someone he recognized, just barely. Another non-human, wading in a pool of blood. Voyager._

_And blood. Eric's blood._

000

"-critical! System failure is imminent! Ten seconds to complete shutdown! Doctor, get out of there, now! Who knows what will happen when the mainframe crashes – you could be killed if the console explodes! Please, doctor, get-"

000

_Blood. His own this time, but not nearly so much. He had been wrong, mislead. It was slaughter, all of it, simply a game to please the time. The Emulator, gone. Eric…gone._

_He reached for it. It had been knocked from his hands before, but it was still there. His pistol – he would never lose it._

_Will you at least say goodbye?_

_She had said, "I can't. You tell him for me. Tell him…he's a good boy."_

_He reached it. It was comfortable in his hand._

_Goodbye._

000

"Doctor! The mainframe's walls are automatically reconstructing themselves! The anomalous networks are collapsing on their own…someone cut the feed between AIs before it could shut down the system – Becky, the Sergeant, she's-"

Dr. Evans whirled around, staring in awe at the large glass window above. There was a flourish of some movement, but it was nearly impossible to tell what was happening at the angle the window was positioned. Quietly, Evans backed up until she nearly fell backwards over the maintenance bed and Ziggurat, who occupied it. As if suddenly remembering his existence, she looked down at him with a perplexed expression.

His eyes were solemn, but he was no longer blinded or infused with pain. Without a single word, Ziggurat reached behind him, detached the annoying device from the system, and stood up. Evans' eyes widened and she stumbled away from him, as if afraid he might attack her.

They were both distracted by the door. It opened, and through it walked a very dazed, but intact Sergeant. Francine took two steps into the circular room before opening her mouth in speechlessness. She stopped, and looked very near the verge of tears, although they did not actually show.

"Ziggurat, I…" Her breath choked her for a moment. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, I should never have…but the Emulator, when I saw it, I had to-"

She stopped again, closed her mouth and shook her head. "That's no excuse. I was wrong for doing that. I had…no idea. It's all my fault…"

"Francine…" Dr. Evans looked long and curiously at the Sergeant.

"It was my fault," Francine said again. "I took control over the mainframe when the anomaly infiltrated it. I had orders. I was supposed to investigate the Emulator, but what I found…" She closed her eyes. "How could they? How dare they? In fifteen years, I've never heard of…"

"Sergeant?" grunted Number 4. The old cyborg had appeared in the room, accompanied by Lucky. They both appeared genuinely concerned.

Francine inhaled sharply, then sighed. "No, nothing. It's none of my business. It is the business of Ziggurat."

"Ziggurat wasn't the one? Francine, you hacked into the system without telling us?" Evans said disbelievingly. Her eyes snapped towards Ziggurat and she paled even further, which was quite a feat. "But I thought-"

"That is over now," Ziggurat interrupted. "Had I been in your place, Dr. Evans, I would have felt the same way. No hard feelings."

"Really? Thank you…" Evans breathed. "This is all too much for my brain to handle. I should have taken that vacation the ministry offered me…"

**Attention cyborg maintenance personnel. Any available technicians and First Class officers are required to report to the cyborg hangar in the standard of an emergency. Emergency serial 00-05-39. **

The air seemed to drop a thousand degrees as the voice through the intercom relayed its message again. After a clouded moment, Number 4 swore loudly.

"Calamity!" he barked angrily. "Dammit, that's Calamity's serial number! That careless idiot hen!"

"Calamity…" Lucky's voice was soft. He cast his eyes away.

"I…we should go back to the hangar. Ziggurat, you…will stay here. Dr. Evans – Becky, run his registry through Station C's mainframe," said Francine. Her normally serene face was shaded with concern. "Ziggurat, I…wish to speak to you later. Right now, I have a cyborg to rescue from the hands of ignorant men."

"Time's a wastin', Frankie," Number 4 growled.

"Please," Francine stated firmly, looking between both the young doctor and the cyborg. Quietly, she turned around and briskly fled the room. Both Lucky and Number 4 were close on her heels. And for what was the second time that day, Ziggurat was alone with Evans. Only this time, there was a particular wedge there that made the following silence almost unbearable.

Dr. Evans eventually looked away, clasping one hand in the other. "I, um…let's go, then. I was supposed to submit your analysis data to the ministry an hour ago. And…Ziggurat, I-"

"I told you," he said. "There was nothing that could be done. Your concern for Francine is reasonable, and nothing to be ashamed of."

She opened her mouth, as if to say something. But she closed it again, and a pause ensued. Then she nodded.

And it was clear that she understood, too.

* * *

-tries to wade through the plot- Urgh…too…thick…must thin out…the plot…heh heh. Okay, it was a bit sad…angsty…but I hope it evolved the story. A little. At least? Just a tiny bit? 


End file.
